


A Light In The Window

by ilarual (Ilarual)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional background ships will be tagged if they become relevant, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Background relationships include but are not limited to:, Basira/Daisy, Cane user Jon, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Did Not Have Sufficient Found Family Trope So I Did A Whole AU About It, Canon-Typical Martin's Mom, Domestic, Elias sucking just as much as usual but this time with less far-reaching consequences, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Georgie/Melanie, Gertrude/Agnes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Trauma Recovery, mostly fluff but the angst is definitely there because this fic has, small town life, tags updated as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilarual/pseuds/ilarual
Summary: With his legal career in shambles and no prospects in the city, Jon Sims makes the decision to leave London and move to a seaside village in rural Yorkshire. He isn't expecting much beyond some peace and quiet and a chance to figure out what he wants to do with the rest of his life. But the citizens of Brambleforde On Sea are a welcoming bunch, and none moreso than Jon's friendly and unassuming new neighbor, one Martin Blackwood.The cozy small town AU canon will forever deny us, featuring an ensemble cast and the slowest of JM slow burns.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 84
Kudos: 192





	1. Day Number One In The Rest of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! When writing longfic I usually prefer something with a meatier plot, but TMA canon is gonna hurt me in all the ways by the time we hit MAG200, so apparently my coping mechanism for that is to write a soft AU where everything's okay and sometimes things still hurt but everyone has the space to process that and help each other. So really, while there are plot threads and character arcs, this is mostly just a fic about living, loving, and the importance of community. 
> 
> Anyway, a few standard disclaimers before we begin. Firstly, I work full time and am also trying to (finally) finish a degree, so while I am aiming to update every other week or so, I can't guarantee that I'll be able to stick to that as consistently as I would like to. My apologies in advance. Also, the chapter estimate of 20 is definitely fake, it will probably be much more than 20 chapters, but since I don't actually know how long this will be beyond a general "oh god so long," we're guesstimating 20 as a placeholder.
> 
> Secondly, as you may have noticed from the tags I am writing Jon as a cane user, mostly because I didn't see any reason not to include this. I want to note that, although it's not a major plot point or something that I'll be dwelling on overmuch, the injury that caused his disability is relatively recent prior to the events of this story and he is still adjusting and being... well, _Jon_ about it.  
> That said, all my direct experience with mobility issues is secondhand from various friends and family members; I have done some additional research, but please don't hesitate to tell me if you spot something I've fucked up, because this is not my lived experience and I'm aware that portrayal of disability in fiction by non-disabled writers is... not always great, to say the least. 
> 
> ANYWAY! All heavy stuff in the author's notes aside, this is mostly a happy, light-hearted fic! We will certainly touch on some heavier topics here and there, and I will try to be diligent about updating tags and including warnings in authors notes where appropriate, but we _definitely_ won't see anything heavier than TMA canon already is by itself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon leaves London

The skies over London are promising rain as the last of the taped and labeled boxes is loaded into the moving van, lowering clouds a dull, uninspiring gray. Jon only spares the ominous sky a passing glance as he accepts the clipboard the driver shoves his way.

“We’re doin’ another pickup this afternoon,” the burly man informs him in a heavy cockney accent as Jon signs where directed, “but we’ll make the drive up to Yorkshire tomorrow. Someone’ll hafta be there to take delivery.”

“Of course,” Jon says. “I’m traveling up myself this afternoon. When should I expect you?”

“Mmm… ‘round two, I should think? Alf over ‘ere can call ahead if we’re runnin’ late.”

Jon nods briskly. “That will be fine. Thank you, gentlemen.”

He shakes both men’s hands and watches as the van labeled with the words Breekon & Hope Deliveries in large red block print pulls away from the kerb, carrying very nearly every material possession he has in the world with it. Then, once the movers are out of sight, he sighs and turns back to his building.

Ignoring the door to the stairwell, Jon takes the elevator up to the third floor and steps back into the flat he has called home for almost a decade now. He pauses in the entryway, allowing the door to swing quietly closed behind him, and looks around. It’s… strange, he thinks, to see the place so empty. All of his furniture is gone with the movers, and all that’s left aside from the appliances that came with the flat are a few bags he’ll be taking with him on the train. He always meant for this place to be temporary, always meant to stop leasing and purchase a flat of his own. Not that this place wasn’t perfectly nice, of course, but he’d thought eventually he’d end up buying a posh flat like the kind all his single coworkers seemed to own. But the location had been convenient, and there had just never seemed to be time to go looking for a new place, and, well...

 _God_. 

A _decade_ of his life spent here. Jon doesn’t really think he’s even recognizable as the young man who first let this place more than nine years ago. 

His morose reflections are interrupted by the buzz of his phone in his jacket pocket. He checks and finds a text from Basira.

_Be there in 5. You about ready?_

He doesn’t quite smile, but the tightness in his chest eases slightly.

 _Yes. Just doing a last sweep_ he replies.

He does just that, walking through the flat and checking closets and cabinets, scanning for anything he might have missed in the last two weeks of cramming his entire life into boxes. The only thing he finds is a damaged ethernet cable coiled up like a snake at the back of the closet in the second-bedroom-turned-office, which he makes the executive decision to leave where it is. Then he goes back through the flat, turning off the lights in each room until the whole place is bathed in a dimmer version of the same cloudy-grey light as the street outside.

Finished at last, Jon stops in front of the door, where his two remaining bags and his cane are leaning against the wall. He hesitates for a moment, debating carrying the cane with him. Then he shakes his head and packs it into the duffel bag. He doesn’t need it right now; he’ll unpack it if he needs it later.

Decision made, he slings the duffel over his shoulder and grabs the handle of his roller-bag with his free hand. After locking the door of the flat for the final time, he heads for the elevator again.

Once he reaches the lobby, he can see Basira's maroon sedan idling at the kerb through the glass front of the door. Before he leaves, he approaches the office where the landlord’s secretary works. 

He’s bent over some paperwork and doesn’t immediately notice Jon hovering in the doorway, so Jon clears his throat to get his attention. When he looks up, he says, “Hi, uh, I’m J—”

“Jonathan Sims,” he interrupts, smiling. “Unit 306. All packed out, are we?”

Taken aback, Jon nods. “Yea- uh, yes. Yes I am.”

The secretary nods. “Well, I’ve got all the paperwork you signed for the lease termination on file. Have you still got your copies or did you need me to photocopy them for you now?”

“Uh, no. I’m— I have them.”

“All right, then I think all we’ll be needing is the key.”

Jon already removed the apartment key from his key ring, so he doesn’t have to fiddle with that. He hands it over.

“Fantastic! Any extra copies floating around out there we should know about?”

“Definitely not. I had a key made for an ex of mine, but that was a few years ago, before I had the locks changed.” And even if he _hadn’t_ insisted on changing the locks during… well… _everything_ , there was absolutely zero chance that Georgie would be coming around trying to get into someplace she thought he was likely to be.

“Right then,” the secretary said, still surprisingly chipper, “Well, Jonathan, it’s been wonderful having you rent from us. Safe travels!”

“Er…” It occurs to Jon very suddenly that despite this person having worked here for almost half the time he’s lived in this building, he doesn’t actually know his name. The realization makes him sad. “Right. Thank you. Um. Have a nice day?”

With a friendly nod, he disappears into the back room, presumably to put away the key Jon handed him, and Jon finds he has no other option than to turn around and escape before this interaction gets any more awkward than it already was.

Outside, he finds Basira and her sedan waiting for him. As soon as she sees him, she pops open the boot to allow him to stow his bags, which he does quickly before moving over to the passenger side door and climbing in.

“I didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

She shakes her head, not looking at him as she pulls out into the driving lane. “Nah, I only got here a couple minutes ago. I swear I hit every red light between here and the station on my way over.”

Jon nods. “I guess I should thank you for at least coming in your own vehicle instead of a patrol car.”

Basira lets out a soft snort of laughter. “Yeah, I didn’t figure we needed to recreate our first meeting.”

It’s Jon’s turn to laugh, a little ruefully. “Agreed. Not really the tone I want to set for today.” There’s a moment of silence and then he shakes his head. “God, what does it say about me that the only person I could ask to give me a lift is the police officer who _arrested_ me two years ago?”

“It means that you’re an antisocial little weirdo who only ever bothered to make work friends instead of real friends,” Basira replies, deadpan.

“I’m not antisocial!” he protests. “I’m just—”

“A bit of a stick in the mud?” she suggests.

“No! Well— maybe.”

She gives him a look out of the corner of her eye that he tentatively interprets as fond. “You know I’m teasing,” she says, and even though he did, he does appreciate the clarification. “But in all seriousness, this move is a fresh start for you. Don’t just hole yourself up in that house, yeah? Go out, meet people. It’ll be good for you.”

Jon wants to argue on principle, but the two things he’s learned after knowing Basira for awhile now is that arguing with her is not productive, and she’s almost always right anyway. “Right,” he says quietly. “I’ll— I’ll try.”

“Good.”

She takes another turn leading them toward the station, and there are several minutes of comfortable silence.

Then, suddenly: “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I’m… I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this yet, but I might be moving up north as well.”

He turns to look at her. Her dark eyes are still focused on the street ahead of them, and her expression is… set, somehow. “Oh?” he prompts.

She gives a short, curt nod. “Yeah. It’s not a sure thing yet, but I asked for a transfer. Told my boss I wasn’t picky about where, as long as they sent me to a smaller force. I don’t—” She takes a deep breath. “I thought I was doing a good thing, when I decided to join the police. I really did. I thought, you know, I could make a difference in the world. But lately, I mean, ever since your case… I don’t know.”

“Basira…”

She cuts him off. “I think it’s London, getting to me. It’s too crowded here. Too corrupt. Maybe I’ll do better somewhere smaller, where I can have more of an impact. Leeds or somewhere, you know? But here? I’m a small fish in an _enormous_ pond.”

Jon didn’t know Basira before the absolute mess that was his run in with the business end of law enforcement, so he doesn’t really have a frame of reference before the events that forged their friendship. But he certainly understands the complicated emotions that come with starting a career thinking you’ll have the chance to make a real difference in the world, only to become rapidly disenchanted.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“It’s not your fault. Your case was just a catalyst,” she replies, which wasn't what he meant, but makes him feel like it probably very much _is_ his fault.

“Well, whatever happens, I wish you luck with it,” he says. “And if you do end up moving north, maybe we’ll see each other more often?”

She nods, and there’s a smile on her face now. “We’d better.”

The rest of the ride to the station is filled by easy quiet. That’s one of the things Jon likes about Basira: she’s comfortable with comfortable silence. He can be plenty talkative when he has a subject he can sink his teeth into, but he doesn’t know how to do small talk very well, and Basira is one of the few people he’s ever met who can make quiet feel companionable instead of tense with the pressure to fill it. 

He’s going to miss her so much.

Eventually, they pull up outside the train station, and Basira helps Jon unload his bags from the boot.

“All right,” she says, once she’s satisfied herself that none of his belongings have been accidentally left in her vehicle, “I already confirmed your arrival time with Daisy, and I’ll text her to let her know we got you to the station on time. You’ve got her number so you can link up with her once you get there?”

Jon waves his cell phone jauntily. “Got it.”

“Good.”

“Well.”

A silence stretches between them for several long moments, standing in the dropoff lane outside St. Pancras International, with the fitful wind tossing stray raindrops into their faces. Then Jon breaks. He raises his arms tentatively. “Can I—?”

She nods, her eyes crinkling up at the corners as her face breaks into a fond smile, and opens her arms to accept a hug.

Jon holds on for a little longer than he thinks is probably socially acceptable, feeling the soft fabric of her hijab against his cheek. They’ve never hugged before, for all that they’ve actually been what one could consider friends for over a year at this point. It’s a pleasant surprise to discover that Basira actually gives great hugs.

“Thank you,” he says, hoarsely because he’s trying very hard not to cry, “for _everything_.” He figures she knows he’s not just talking about the ride.

“Of course,” she says, and to his surprise she also sounds emotional. “I’m gonna miss you, you know that?”

And then she’s letting him go, and something in Jon immediately begins throwing a temper tantrum because he’s not ready for the hugging to stop. He manages to say “Yeah, I’ll miss you too” instead of something much more embarrassing and needy. Basira has already done more for him in a few short years than most friends would in a lifetime, and he doesn’t need to impose on her any further just because he’s apparently more touch-starved than he thought.

“You’ll have to come for a visit if you get that transfer to Leeds,” he says.

Basira gives him an incredulous look. “I’m coming for a visit in the summer whether my transfer goes through or not, now that I’ve got _two_ of my favorite people living in Yorkshire. Sooner, if I can get the vacation days.”

The thought warms him. He imagines telling some new acquaintance _Oh, I can’t make it this weekend, I’ve got a friend from London coming in for a visit._

Jonathan Sims has never once in his life had a scheduling conflict that was caused by anything other than work. The idea of it makes him smile.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says.

And then, because neither of them is the type for long goodbyes, he shoulders his bags and heads into the terminal, tossing what he hopes is a jaunty wave over his shoulder as he goes.

* * *

The train north is uneventful. He makes his transfer from the EMR to the Northern line at Sheffield without incident, and spends most of the journey with his nose buried in a biography, until the lowering winter sun gets too dim to see by and the cabin lights flicker on. The harsher light begins to give him a bit of a headache, so he puts the book away and leans back in his seat with his eyes closed. He tries, unsuccessfully, not to think too much.

By the time the train pulls into the station in Hull, it’s fully dark outside, and much colder than it was in London. 

Jon stumbles out of the station and onto the street, and just has time to wish he had thought to wear a heavier jacket when a loud female voice calls his name.

He looks up sharply from where he was fishing in his pocket for his cell phone and sees a woman in her late thirties leaning against a lamp post a few meters away. She looks like she’s a little above average height, probably an inch or two taller than him, with shoulder length blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail. She’s got a face that’s more elegant than pretty, and she’s wearing lipstick in a vivid dark purple shade that stands out starkly against her fair skin. Despite wearing a denim jacket that covers every inch of skin below her neck, she gives off the impression of being absolutely _jacked_. Which means this must be…

“Alice Tonner?” he guesses.

She gives him a grin that shows a little too much tooth to be entirely friendly. “Call me Daisy,” she says, a slight Welsh accent coloring her vowels. “Everybody else does.”

“Daisy, then. I was just about to text you.”

She gives a lazy wave to dismiss the idea and straightens up, walking toward him with the long, loping stride of an athlete. “Here, give me that bag, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

She’s more right than she knows, and Jon’s right knee gives a throb of gratitude as the awkward weight of the overstuffed duffel bag is taken from him. He contemplates asking to get his cane from the bag, but then he gets another look at Daisy effortlessly slinging the bag over her shoulder and resolves not to need it. He’s sure his PT would have some things to say about that but she’s not here so he’s going to do what he wants.

“Come on,” Daisy says, with a very intense sort of cheeriness in her voice, “Car’s this way.”

And off she goes at a pace that probably doesn’t seem very fast to her with those unfairly long legs of hers, but is a bit more than comfortably brisk for Jon. He grits his teeth and makes it his mission to keep up, his roller bag jolting behind him along the pavement.

Thankfully, she isn’t parked too far from the station, so his wincing half-jog doesn’t have time to devolve into a limp before she’s clicking the key fob for her vehicle. To his surprise, Daisy’s car is a jaunty little hybrid. He’d have pegged her for the SUV type, honestly.

He’s not great at pleasantries at the best of times, and Daisy’s brusque attitude has thrown him off enough that it isn’t until he’s buckling in his seatbelt that he remembers to say, a bit stiffly, “Thank you for giving me a lift.”

“Eh, don’t mention it. I’m happy to do a favor for a friend of Basira’s.”

Jon nods. “From the way she talks, I get the impression you two are close.”

She shoots him another sharp grin before pulling out of her parking spot. “You could say that. We’ve known each other for years, I owe her a lot. It’s mostly thanks to her my life’s gone the way it has.”

“Guess we have that in common, then,” Jon says unthinkingly, and Daisy lets out a bark of laughter.

“Hah, yeah, so I’ve heard.”

He groans. “Oh don’t tell me she’s told you about—”

“She didn’t mention you by name. That’d be some kind of police code violation, probably. But she mentioned enough _generalities_ that I could read between the lines and work some things out. Saw your picture in the news a few years back."

Jon lets his head drop back against the headrest. “Of course. Of course.”

Daisy shrugs. “Hey, I’m just glad Basira was right about you. If she’d decided to trust you and you’d ended up being guilty, I’m pretty sure it would have tanked her career. So, y’know, thanks for _not_ being a total shithead, I guess.”

Jon has… absolutely no idea how he’s supposed to respond to that. “Uh. Right.”

Silence descends in the vehicle, and unlike the companionable quiet he shared with Basira a few hours earlier, this silence is decidedly awkward. Jon frantically rifles through his mental card catalogue of topics to try to find _literally anything at all_ to say to this intimidating woman to break the suffocating tension.

Finally, he comes up with something, and triumphantly blurts out, “So you run a gym, right?”

At the exact same moment, Daisy asks, “You want to get something to eat?”

“Sorry—”

“Go ahead—”

Daisy sighs. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to grab a bite before we hit the road?”

“I— oh, no, thank you. I ate on the train.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, and turns left to follow the signs for the A1033. Then she adds, “And yes, I do run a gym. An old friend of mine co-owns it with me.”

Jon has never really considered himself to be out of shape, exactly, but he’s never had a gym membership either, so he’s not really sure what that entails. “Sounds… interesting?” he guesses.

“I like it well enough.” She shrugs and turns her eyes back to the dark road.

What follows is the most intensely awkward twenty minutes Jon has ever passed in a moving vehicle. He makes a few more ill-fated attempts at conversation, Daisy gives terse replies, and then silence lapses over them again. This cycle repeats itself a few times, and Jon finds himself hoping very deeply that Daisy is just one of those people who doesn’t like to talk while driving. If his conversational skills have really gotten _that_ bad…

Well, it doesn’t bode well for his prospects for ingratiating himself into his new community.

Mercifully, the clock hits 7PM and, as if a switch has been flipped, Daisy reaches over to flick on the radio. “You don’t mind?” she asks, and before Jon even has a chance to reply, she says, “Good. It’s time for my show.”

‘Her show’ as it transpires, is _The Archers_ of all things. Jon is flabbergasted. Daisy Tonner is, to put it bluntly, a very strange contradiction in terms.

Jon has never enjoyed soap operas. Admittedly, a radio format is marginally more tolerable than the televised counterpart. He almost says as much, but it occurs to him at the last second that such an observation might not be well-received, and he’s just barely smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Apparently he doesn’t school his expression as successfully, however, because Daisy gives him a _look_ and asks, “Problem?”

“Nope,” he says, and he has a feeling it might be the wisest syllable he’s ever uttered.

The radio program at least does him the small boon of filling the silence for the rest of the drive. 

After another twenty minutes or so, they pass by the sign that marks their entrance to Brambleforde On Sea and travel down the quiet main street of the town. Most of the shops are closed. Only the houses and what looks to be a village pub show any lights in the windows.

“Which street is it?” Daisy asks.

“It’ll be the next left,” Jon says. “Up Cliff Road there.”

Daisy dutifully turns where he’s indicated, and takes them up a steep, winding road out of the village proper. It’s not actually a long distance beyond the center of town, but Jon thinks— not for the first time since he purchased the house— that he’s going to have to get some reliable transportation, because he really doesn’t fancy walking that hill more often than absolutely necessary. A quarter mile becomes much more difficult to manage when most of the distance is on a thirty-degree slope.

He points out the next turn to Daisy, who ferries him safely down the tree-studded lane and parks up in front of a charming little cottage.

“Cute,” she remarks, peering through the windscreen at the house. “Wouldn’t have pictured you as the type to like a picket fence sort of place.”

Jon isn’t sure whether or not he’s supposed to be offended. The truth is, he’d fallen in love with the cottage almost instantly. It’s almost appallingly quaint, but he likes that about it. He hasn’t been here since before the purchase went through, and being back here feels… well, not like coming home, not yet, but it feels peaceful in a way that nowhere else he’s lived ever has.

And that’s what he’s coming here for: peace.

Apparently Daisy decides she’s done waiting for him to respond to her barbed commentary and says, “All right, hop out. Let’s get you inside so I can text Basira and let her know I delivered you safely. She’d never forgive me if I let anything happen to her little crime buddy.”

“‘ _C-Crime buddy?_ ’” Jon protests. “I’m not—!”

She rolls her eyes, a grin on her face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just a joke, Jon.”

Well, apparently the stultifying attempts at conversation on the drive haven’t removed him from the category of people Daisy feels she can joke with so that’s… a step up from most of his interactions, actually.

They unload Jon’s bags and Daisy actually helps him carry the duffel to the house. Once he’s been safely deposited on the front porch, she gives him another of those sharp grins. Somehow, it doesn’t look as threatening as the first one, and he offers a smile of his own in response. It feels a bit odd on his face, but the look in Daisy’s eyes warms.

“All right, you’ve got your keys an’ that?” she asks.

He pulls out his key fob, empty now except for the keys to this house, and nods.

“Good. Listen, I'm shit at checking my mobile, but if you need anything, you can get in touch with me at the gym. T & H Body Sculpting in Hull. Basira can give you the number of you can't find it online,” she says.

Jon stands there for a few seconds, gobsmacked. He hadn’t expected that. “I— I— Um. Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says gruffly. “A friend of Basira’s is a friend of mine.”

She heads back to her car and waits until he’s got the door opened before she pulls out. Jon ventures a wave, and he thinks he can make out Daisy giving him an ironic salute.

Jon stands watching in astonishment until the red glow of her taillights disappears from view. Then he turns and closes the door behind him, and realizes quite abruptly that he’s breathtakingly tired.

He checks the thermostat and turns the furnace on, quite certain he doesn’t want to find out what sleeping in a cottage with no heat on in late November is like. Then he hauls his bags to the bedroom, and extracts his pillow and sleeping bag from the duffel, spreading them out on the floor of the bedroom. He bought the bedroll for an ill-advised company retreat six years ago and is deeply grateful he never got rid of it. It’s not going to be the most comfortable night he’s ever spent, but it will do until his bed arrives tomorrow.

Without even bothering to wash up, Jon crawls into his makeshift camp bed, and is asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brambleforde On Sea is, of course, a fictional town.
> 
> And what, oh what, is Jon's mysterious, messy, legally questionable backstory? All in good time, dear readers, all in good time...


	2. Somewhere Close to Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon has a rough morning, encounters several extroverts, and begins settling in to his new environment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. So this week's episode was... a lot, huh? I wish I could say I had a chapter of pure fluff ready for y'all to recover from _that_ , but unfortunately I just have a lot of Jon problem-solving, overthinking, and trying to deal with the mortifying ordeal of small talk. Hopefully that will do for now?
> 
> Big thanks to Artyphex (@feathered-serpents on tumblr) for giving this a look-over for character voice purposes!
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings:** none

When Jon wakes up, he immediately regrets all his life choices. He isn’t even all the way conscious before his knee is informing him— quite forcefully— that he may have overdone it yesterday. Sleeping on the ground with only the thin padding of his sleeping bag between him and the (admittedly very nice) hardwood floor has not helped matters. Add to that the fact that his mouth tastes vile and the fact that, despite the rumbling noise of the furnace running, it’s still bloody cold, and by the time he opens his eyes he’s already in a foul mood.

He rolls over a bit haphazardly, fumbling with one hand for his glasses until he finds them and shoves them onto his face, and blinks around at the room that, theoretically, is now his bedroom.

It’s at the back corner of the house, away from the road, with a window facing west and one facing north. There’s a decent-sized closet and a door onto the master bathroom. The walls are whitewashed, just like in the rest of the place. He’s not sure if  _ every _ house, cottage, and bungalow in England’s housing market seems to have their walls painted something on the spectrum from beige to white, but based on the evidence amassed while he was searching for this place, that seems to be the case. He isn’t sure if it just makes it easier to sell, or if it’s supposed to be fashionable, but he doesn’t think he cares for it.

Still, walls can be repainted. What drew Jon to this place in particular was the cozy hardwood flooring, the wide hallways, and the large, high windows that make the place feel open and airy even on an overcast day. The fact that it’s all one storey helped as well. He’s not sure why every house in rural England seems to be a two-storey affair, but this place was a lucky find. The only steps in the whole place are the two steps up to the front porch, and he can manage that much even on his bad days.

Which, he thinks with a sigh, today is probably going to turn out to be. 

It takes longer than he’d like to wrestle his way out of his makeshift bed, but eventually he manages it and goes rummaging through his luggage for his cane and his toiletry bag. He’s pathetically grateful that he thought to pack painkillers, and shuffles to the bathroom to swallow two little white tablets with a palmful of water from the tap. The water has a sour-metallic taste from sitting too long in unused pipes. Jon grimaces and decides to leave the tap running for awhile to flush things out.

He gives himself a once-over in the mirror.

The bags under his eyes are as dark as they have been since... probably sometime in college? He can’t actually remember the last time he didn’t look tired, even before everything that’s happened the last two years. His hair’s getting shaggy as well, he realizes, dark waves streaked with premature silver tickling at the nape of his neck. It’s getting to the point that he’s either going to need to cut it or let it grow out, and he’s not sure which direction he’ll go just yet. He hasn’t shaved for several days either, too preoccupied with the frantic preparations for his move, and his chin is getting scruffy. 

But for all that he still looks exhausted and in dire need of a good shave, he actually feels like the face in the mirror is  _ him _ again. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to be the person he was two or five or even ten years ago— and when he’s being brutally honest with himself, he isn’t sure he’d want to be— but maybe he’s starting to become a version of himself he recognizes again.

Hence, obviously, the move out of London. Healthier environment, healthier Jon, or at least so it’s supposed to go in theory. He tries out an experimental smile in the mirror. It slides off his face relatively quickly, still too forced and unnatural-looking to hang onto it for long.

“Okay,” he tells his reflection sternly. “Big day today. Lots to do, first day in the new house.”

He returns to his bags and pulls out the change of clothes he packed to get him through until the rest of his belongings are delivered. Jeans and a warm cardigan, a far cry from the starched suits he’s worn on a near-daily basis his entire adult life, but decidedly better-suited to moving house. He ends up having to sit on the lid of the toilet to get his trousers on, but once he’s changed and splashed his face with a bit of the now-fresher (but still freezing cold) water from the tap, he feels a bit more put-together.

He pulls out his phone and calls up his notes app, reviewing the list he made on the train the day before, and making a few additions and corrections.

“Utilities were set up Monday… BT’s coming to connect the internet at ten… moving van at two… hm, I’ll need to check the water heater,” he mutters, looking over at the still-running tap and turning it off, satisfied that the pipes should be clear.

Checking the time, he figures he should have enough time before the internet company gets there to figure out how to turn on the hot water heater. He stands up stiffly, grabs his cane, and heads in the direction of the utility cupboard.

It takes Jon thirty seconds of staring at his hot water heater to realize that he… actually has no idea how these things work. The last time he lived anywhere besides a block of flats where all these sorts of things were managed by a landlord was when he was a teenager still living with his grandmother.

It takes Jon ten minutes of creative googling to find instructions for how to get the thing working. Or, more accurately, one minute of creative googling and nine minutes of standing around waiting for the page to load because his mobile reception here is absolute garbage— he makes a note on his to do list to find out if there are any other carriers that have better coverage in this part of Yorkshire. 

It takes Jon exactly one second to realize that, although he’s confident he can follow the simple tutorial for how to ignite his water heater’s pilot light, he doesn’t actually have a lighter or matches on him.

“God I wish I hadn’t given up smoking.” He adds that to his mental list of things to pick up when he braves the walk down to Main Street, because he  _ really _ doesn’t fancy the idea of cold showers for the rest of the week.

Abruptly he’s jolted out of this train of thought by a loud knocking at the door. He glances down at his phone to check the time. 9:52, still a few minutes ahead of when the internet company is due.

To his astonishment, however, it is the serviceman come to do his installation. Jon has never in his life heard of an ISP being  _ early _ for an appointment, but he’s also not one to complain about things being done ahead of schedule, so he lets the man in and shows him where the plug for the co-ax cable protrudes from the wall. 

Within forty-five minutes, the setup is finished and Jon sends the serviceman away, still without furniture or hot water, but now with a brand-new cable modem blinking away in the corner of his sitting room.

It’s at least three hours until the rest of his belongings are due to arrive, and Jon suspects that Mssrs. Breekon & Hope are rather less likely to be punctual than the man from BT, so he’s got plenty of time on his hands to get things done before he needs to be ready for his furniture. He’s just debating whether he should get started on deep-cleaning the kitchen or sweeping the whole house when his stomach lets out an inordinately loud rumble.

Jon realizes abruptly that he hasn’t eaten since his stale sandwich from the dining car on the train yesterday. And that there’s no food in the house.

This is not like London, he realizes, where he could just order takeout if there’s nothing appetizing in his pantry. And Brambleforde is small, so there’s nothing in the way of public transportation. If he wants breakfast— or, realistically, an early lunch at this point— he’s going to have to walk down to the village and get it himself. 

_ Fuck _ . Okay.

He grabs his roller bag from the bedroom and empties it of the overnight necessities he had packed in there for his trip. It’s not ideal for toting back groceries, just a pretty standard rolling suitcase, but he doesn’t want to tackle hauling bags up the appropriately-named Cliff Road without something he can pull behind him. Once he’s checked his pockets for phone, keys, and wallet, he tosses on his jacket and walks out the door.

To his relief, it’s warmer today. Maybe it’s just that— miracle of miracles— the sun is shining, but he appreciates it nonetheless. The air is fresh, chilly but not bitingly cold the way it was the night before, and he can smell the sea.

His new home is part of a small neighborhood above the village, five little cottages strung out along a terrace with a view of the water from their front windows. Jon isn’t sure about the other four, but the interior of his was renovated by the previous owner in the early aughts, and it’s a nice blend of modern convenience inside and charming old stone construction outside. The houses are more spread out than they would be somewhere more urban, with actual proper space for a garden between them, and Jon’s was at the dead center, with two houses on either side.

As he shuts the garden gate behind him, he pauses for a moment as he looks at the other houses he shares a drive with. He didn’t consider them much when he originally toured the place, but now he takes a second to study them.

The one at the far end of the lane seems a bit run-down, the unpainted step a bit rotten-looking, but the house between it and Jon’s seems well-kept. The flower pots on the front step are empty, not surprising for November, but it nevertheless looks tidy and welcoming, especially compared to his own overgrown garden, which is in dire need of a good raking. The house on his south end is vacant, a red and white For Rent sign hanging on the gate, and the one closest to Cliff Road is unremarkable. There’s a black SUV with heavy duty roof racks parked up in the lot, and Jon spies an “I ♡ SKYDIVING” bumper sticker on the rear gate of the vehicle as he reaches the end of the lane.

“Interesting choice of hobby,” he remarks, only half-sarcastic, as he passes by.

He turns onto Cliff Road and looks down the hill to the intersection with Main Street.

It’s not far.

Really, it’s not far at all.

His knee twinges.

Jon grits his teeth, tightens his grip on his cane, and sets off down the hill.

* * *

Brambleforde has three restaurants: a bakery that doubles as a cafe in the morning and early afternoon, the public dining room at the Black Swan Inn— a small bed and breakfast that mostly caters to tourists and city people looking to get away to the country— and the village pub, which is open Tuesday through Saturday and has a kitchen that closes at eight o’clock sharp each evening.

Jon was aware of these options before purchasing his house, having done thorough research on the area he was moving to before making his decision; all things being equal he would have preferred the bakery for a bite to eat before he investigates the local grocer. However, by the time he reaches the bottom of the hill, he’s sweating and in pain and deeply regretting his life choices, and the bakery is down by the waterfront on the far end of town from where he lives. Probably only another half-mile, but too far to walk if he wants to actually accomplish his goal of getting groceries.

He checks his phone. Half-past eleven, so the pub will be open, and that’s just past the intersection. Not his preference, but it’ll have to do.

The pub is made from the same old red brick as most of the old buildings in these little towns, unremarkable and familiar. There’s an old-fashioned wooden sign swinging above the doorway announcing its name as The Bluebell. Jon hauls himself inside, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer light once he’s out of the sun.

Unsurprisingly, there isn’t much of a lunch crowd. A pair of men in work-worn overalls are nursing drinks over burgers in the corner, and an older woman with tightly-curled grey hair is sitting at the bar proper. Serving her is a woman who looks to be about Jon’s age, with a short, blonde afro that’s a striking contrast to her brown skin. 

At the sound of the door swinging shut behind him, the barkeep looks up and says, “Be right with you, love. Take a seat anywhere!” 

As Jon moves to comply, he realizes he’s seen her before, the very first time he visited Brambleforde. He’d come up with the estate agent to view the house, and as they were driving through town, he’d seen her walking down the street. He remembers how her striking bleached-blonde hair had caught his attention. In hindsight, he thinks that was probably a factor in his decision to move here, specifically. Getting away from the stress of living in London was one thing, but moving to a town exclusively populated with white Brits would have been quite another. Seeing her again is… reassuring, somehow.

Once his bag is securely tucked up beneath a table, Jon sinks into his seat with a barely-suppressed sigh of relief and makes it his business to study one of the handful of menus left on the table.

The pretty barkeep finishes up with the woman she was serving and approaches before Jon has had a chance to make any decisions about food.

“Welcome to the Bluebell,” she says. Her voice is pleasant and her tone is approachable, but there’s a canny glint in her bright hazel eyes that puts him on edge instantly. “What can I get you?”

Jon panics. “Uh… fish and chips,” he blurts out. It’s the first thing that pops into his head and she’s already written it down before he can change his mind.

“Sure thing. Anything to drink? We’ve got the usual things on tap, two different ciders new this week, all the usual soft drinks…”

She trails off, staring at him expectantly, and once again Jon feels a bit like he’s back in law school, being put on the spot by a professor with a question about a reading he hasn’t finished.

“Mm… cream soda?” 

One flawlessly-sculpted eyebrow rises, but her smile doesn’t waver. “Cream soda it is. Anything else I can put in for ya?”

Jon shakes his head, expecting her to move on, but she pauses, studying him with an inscrutable expression.

“You know, I could swear I’ve never seen you before, but you look so familiar for some reason. Have we met somewhere?” she asks.

They haven’t, unless that split-second glimpse of her on the street six months ago counts, but Jon can pretty well guess where she might have seen him somewhere before. He feels a bit of a sinking feeling in his stomach; he’d hoped that maybe so far out of London’s gravity well, he’d be able to avoid having anyone recognize him. 

Maybe that was too much to hope for. Brambleforde might not house any investment firms, but it  _ is  _ home to over one and a half thousand people, most of whom presumably pay their television license.

“No, I don’t believe so,” he says tersely. “I’ve only just moved to the area.”

“Hm. Must just have one of those faces, I guess,” she says, with a casually dismissive tone that Jon doesn’t quite buy. She waves her order pad. “I’ll get this put in for you, be right up.”

Jon watches her walk back in the direction of the kitchen and restrains a sigh.

He doesn’t even like fish and chips.

He fiddles with his phone while he’s waiting on his order. The signal isn’t strong enough for anything to actually load all the way, but he’s mostly eavesdropping on the desultory conversation the two men in the corner are sharing, and scrolling through half-loaded spam emails from six months ago is just something to do with his hands.

After a few minutes, the barkeep returns with his meal. As she’s setting a generous basket of chips in front of him, the door to the pub bursts open and a tall black man saunters in. He looks to be in his late thirties, strikingly handsome, with his hair done in short braids and a broad grin on his face.

“Good afternoon Annabelle!” he proclaims, arms spread wide. “You are looking  _ especially  _ stunning today!”

“It’s eleven forty-eight in the morning,” the barkeep replies phlegmatically, not bothering to look over at the newcomer.

“And how are we today ladies and gentlemen?” he says, cheerfully ignoring her. “Gertrude? Max? Angus? Good? Excellent!” Having received nods of acknowledgement or— in the case of the woman at the bar who Jon assumes must be Gertrude by process of elimination— tolerant eyerolls from the scant handful of other patrons in the pub, he meanders closer to where Jon is seated. “So what do you say, Anna? Gorgeous day, probably the last bit of sun we’ll get this year, this place is dead, care to play a little hooky?”

The barkeep— Annabelle, Jon supposes— looks deeply unimpressed. “You can flirt as much as you like, Tim,” she replies. “You know it won’t get you anywhere with me.”

He grins at her. “What can I say? Hope springs eternal.”

She rolls her eyes, and it might be fond. Jon isn’t sure. “The usual, I’m guessing?”

“You know me so well.”

“Have a seat, I’ll let Ray know and get it out to you.”

She glides off, and Tim is left standing beside Jon’s table, waving cheekily after her. Then he turns to look at Jon and, to his complete befuddlement, greets him.

“Hi there! Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round here before, are you new in town?”

Jon frowns. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Oh, you know,” Tim says, unphased by the churlish reply, “small town, not a lot of unfamiliar faces, and it’s not really tourist season right now so you’re either passing through on your way to somewhere else or you’re someone who’s only just moved here.”

“That’s an… interesting deductive process.”

“Well, I like to think I’m a pretty smart guy,” Tim says with a winning smile, flipping the chair on the opposite side of the table around backwards and sitting down on it, leaning forward against the backrest. He gives Jon a long look that Jon struggles to decipher, then holds out his hand, still grinning. “Tim Stoker, nice to meet you.”

Jon is aware of the stereotype about people from small towns being friendly to the point of being overly-familiar, but he wasn’t expecting… whatever this is. “Jonathan Sims,” he replies stiffly, accepting the handshake tentatively. “And yes, I’ve recently moved here.”

Tim gives him a thoughtful look. “Sims… you wouldn’t happen to be the guy who bought the middle house up on Strawberry Terrace, would you?”

“I— I am, actually.”

“Fantastic! Lovely to meet you at last! You know, Gertrude— that’s Gertrude over there—” He gestures at the older woman sitting at the bar, picking over a plate of onion strings. “She used to live in that house when she was younger. Didn’t you Gertrude? Any tips for our new friend Mr. Sims? Any gummy doors or tricks to get the hot water in the shower working right?”

Without turning around, the grey-haired woman at the bar says loudly, “Do not drag me into your shenanigans, Timothy Stoker.” Jon realizes that she’s staring at the mirror over the bar, and probably watching them in the reflection. Though the set of her mouth is stern, there’s the tiniest hint of a smile lurking in the corners of her eyes. “I haven’t lived in that house in forty years, and as far as I know it’s been renovated extensively since I was young.”

Tim seems unfazed. “Thank you, Gertrude,” he calls back cheerily. 

Despite how taken aback he is by this entire ongoing interaction, Jon finds himself charmed. This Tim Stoker, whoever he is, comes across as the rather alarming lovechild of a steamroller and a golden retriever, but it’s... endearing?

“That’s Gertrude for you,” Tim continues, turning back to face Jon. “She grew up here, but she lived in London for years doing some kind of academic work and came back to Brambleforde when she retired. Lovely woman. Absolutely terrifying.”

“Er…”

“But enough about Gertrude. What brings you to a little village in Yorkshire?”

Jon hesitates. He certainly hasn’t been planning on spilling his guts about his real reasons for moving to the country, but he hadn’t actually anticipated meeting the locals— aside from perhaps his immediate neighbors— until he was a bit more settled. He hasn’t actually thought about an answer to that question that’s appropriate for public dissemination. 

“Um… just got tired of city life, I guess,” he fumbles.

To his immense relief, Tim seems to buy this. “Oh, I get that!” he says. “I used to live down south too, but I realized I was spending so much time driving up north to get to the national parks on the weekends that living closer to the office wasn’t worth the cost of petrol, so I’ve been tele-working for the last six years. Trust me, it’s absolutely worth getting out of the rush! Are you an outdoorsy type too, or just tired of all the noise?”

Jon is beginning to feel a bit interrogated. He resists the urge to crawl under the table. “Mr. Stoker,” he says stiffly, “not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity to meet new people, but—”

Tim raises his hands in a placating gesture, cutting him off. “Ah, say no more. Moving’s a bit stressful on its own, yeah? Well, I won’t keep you, but hey, listen, if you need anything, I’m in the phone book!”

He gets to his feet just in time to intercept a returning Annabelle and pluck the white takeout bag she’s carrying from her hands. “Thanks Anna, you’re a peach!” he says. “Tell Raymond to put it on my tab!”

“Your tab’s getting to be ridiculous,” she replies tartly. “We’ll be sending you to collections if you’re not careful.”

Mischief twinkling in his eyes, Tim replies, “Have I ever left my tab unpaid? Have a bit of faith in me.”

“That’ll be the day,” Annabelle mutters.

Ignoring her, Tim gives a jaunty wave to the room at large. “Afternoon, Gertrude! Gentlemen!” He gives one last look to Jon, and adds, “Nice to meet you, Jonathan Sims! Don’t be a stranger!”

Jon, who is still trying to digest the fact that in the current year there is somewhere left in England where a phone book is still of actual use, just stares as the human whirlwind departs the pub with the same speed he entered. His burgeoning fugue state is interrupted by Annabelle, who taps the table in front of him.

“Do not listen to a word that man says,” she says, deadly serious. “Ever. You want the gossip in this town, you come to me.”

Jon is pretty sure he hates everything about this interaction. “I’ll keep that under advisement,” he replies, in a tone that he hopes makes it extremely clear that he  _ absolutely will not _ .

“Well, enjoy your meal,” Annabelle replies, turning on a customer service voice that is genuinely unnerving in its cheeriness.

Once she’s gone over to check on the two men at the other end of the hall, Jon tentatively takes a bite of deep-fried haddock.

It’s actually not bad.

* * *

Jon keeps his groceries to the essentials. Milk, eggs, bread, a few things that will hopefully be quick to throw together when he's tired from unpacking. As much as he loathes the idea of having to make the walk down the hill from his house more often than necessary, he doesn’t think he has it in him to haul more than the bare minimum back up with him right now. At least he remembers to toss a lighter into his basket so that he can hopefully get the water heater going.

By the time he’s standing at the intersection of Cliff Road and Main Street, he’s already deeply glad of that decision. He pauses for a moment at the bottom of the hill, giving himself a bit of a breather before committing to the slog up the steep slope, when he hears the rumble of a car engine and the sound of someone calling his name from just behind him. He turns, and to his surprise he sees his erstwhile estate agent leaning out the window of her shiny silver sedan.

“Helen?”

She flashes him that grin of hers that somehow manages to be friendly and welcoming but also shows off way too many teeth. “Fancy seeing you here!” she exclaims. “I was just on my way up to your house!”

He stares at her in mild befuddlement. “Oh?”

“Yes! I hadn’t heard from you since the closing, but I remember you said you’d be moving  up the thirdup third week in November, so I thought I’d stop by with a housewarming present!”

Jon blinks. “O-oh. Well. Thank you? That’s— very kind of you.”

Helen’s smile, somehow, gets even wider. Jon isn’t entirely sure how it fits on her face.

“Care for a lift?” she offers, “Since I’m headed your way anyway?”

The relief that floods him is more than a little mortifying, and Jon struggles not to show it on his face. “I’d be very grateful, yes.”

“You can pop your bag in the back!” she says with a graceful gesture towards the back seat.

Jon hurries to get in, settling himself into the passenger seat as quickly as he’s able, and before he knows it, Helen is pulling up to the house. 

“Here we are!” she says brightly as she bounces out of the vehicle almost before the engine has turned off. “Home sweet home. How are you finding it?”

“Uh, wonderful,” Jon replies, still reeling a bit from the suddenness of her appearance even as he follows her around to the back of the car. “My furniture hasn’t been delivered yet, I’m afraid, they’re not coming until this afternoon, but it’s nice just to be here.”

“Oh I know just what you mean.” Helen is rummaging through the boot of her car, evidently looking for something in a space surprisingly full of odds and ends. “The last time I moved house, I was so relieved to just be in a new place that the roof could have been falling in and I’d have been delighted!”

By the time Jon has extracted his suitcase full of groceries, she seems to have found what she’s looking for, and pops up like a jack-in-the-box with a gift bag and a bottle of wine in her hands. “There now!” she exclaims. “I won’t impose on you long, but I wanted to give you these in person, since I was planning to be in the area today.”

“I—” Jon fumbles. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” she said. “Now tell me, I know you said you were thinking about painting, have you decided on a color scheme yet?”

Helen trails him up to the front door, chattering away happily about paint swatches and matching sofa covers, and Jon invites her in with a gesture.

Once he puts his meager grocery haul away, he offers to open the bottle of wine she brought him— he’s pretty sure offering to share is the appropriate social response in this situation— but she declines, citing the drive back to York. Nevertheless, despite her protestations of brevity, they stand chatting in his kitchen long enough that Jon’s knee starts to ache again, and he offers her a glass of water and a sit-down just so he can get off his feet without giving away how much pain he’s in. 

The sitting room has a bay window with a window seat that looks out over the back garden, so despite the lack of furniture they’re able to sit down quite comfortably while Helen inquires about everything from how he’s been since their last meeting to an anecdote about her brother’s “mental health journey,” whatever that means. 

The thing is, Jon actually likes Helen. She’s sweet, and she was very kind and helpful when he was trying to navigate the treacherous waters of real estate. But today has been a lot already and he finds himself very grateful that she, like all estate agents worth their salt, is very skilled at maintaining a steady flow of conversation almost entirely by herself.

Eventually, though, she manages to steer herself back around to a subject that requires actual input from him beyond nodding. “So how are you adjusting to Brambleforde?” she asks. “It must be a big adjustment for a city boy like you!”

“I’ve only been here a day,” Jon says. “I suppose the weather has been pleasant?”

She nods, gazing out at the winter-yellowed garden. “Hasn’t it just? Imagine sunshine like this in the middle of November! It’s a sign, I think, a blessing for your move.”

“I don’t believe in signs,” Jon lies.

Helen smiles tolerantly and says, “A good day for a walk, then.”

He nods. “I’ll grant you that.”

“Dreadfully steep hill, though, isn’t it?” she muses. “I’ll tell you, I don’t envy you that walk every time you want to get down to the village!”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Jon says, even though it is  _ absolutely _ that bad. He feels strangely guilty for saying it, and tries to find a way to salvage things. “Although perhaps you have a point. I can’t imagine it’s a pleasant walk in the winter.”

“No indeed,” Helen agrees. “You should look into getting a car. Living out here in these little villages isn’t like living in London; there isn’t much public transportation to speak of aside from the bus service, which is only really useful if you’re trying to get somewhere out of town.”

Jon frowns. “A car? I don’t think I’ve driven anything since I left Oxford.”

He never bought a car for much the same reason he never moved to a more expensive flat. He already lived reasonably close to his office, and the Tube had proved perfectly serviceable. His coworkers had enjoyed flashing the keys to their luxury sedans and sports cars, but it all just seemed to him like meaningless posturing, especially considering the absurd cost of parking when your building didn’t have a car park.

“Well, if you decide you’re in the market for something to get you around, there are a few places in Hull and York that I can recommend,” Helen says. “It depends on if you’re looking for new or used, of course, but I—”

A heavy knocking at the front door interrupts her.

Jon frowns. “Who—?” He glances at his phone, and to his shock realizes that it’s already half-two. “Oh. That must be the furniture.”

Helen glances at the gleaming wristwatch she wears. “Gracious, is it that time already? I’d better be getting on, the family will be missing me.”

Once Jon has opened the door for the deliverymen, she makes her excuses, leaving Jon to deal with Breekon and Hope and the distribution of the rest of his belongings. He finds himself giving directions about the placement of his furniture and identifying which boxes go to which rooms, which makes him wish he’d had the foresight to label the bloody things. One nondescript cube of cardboard, as it turns out, looks very much like the next.

To his relief and surprise, “full service delivery” apparently means that the two burly men go so far as to unpack his dishes and put them in the cupboard for him. They leave his clothes well enough alone in the boxes they were packed in, for which he’s grateful, and he can already see he’s going to have to reorganize his books because they shoved them on the shelves with no particular rhyme or reason, but he can’t help but be glad for the extra effort. For all that there’s still hours of daylight left by the time they’re done, Jon’s feeling more than a little worn down. His leg is killing him and he hasn’t had this much social interaction in a twenty-four hour period since… he can’t actually remember when.

All in all, he’s craving solitude by the time that Alfred Breekon and Mr. Hope, First Name Unknown, finish hauling around his belongings and hand him a clipboard to sign off on the delivery.

Once the delivery van has pulled away down the lane, Jon locks the door and goes to stand in the sitting room.

His furniture is a bit of a mismatch. There are some little end tables and things that he’s had since his university days. A glass-fronted curio cabinet he acquired to house his grandmother’s crystal stemware, inherited upon her death three years after he completed his LPC. The few pieces he bought himself after moving into his flat are… fashionable, or at least they were seven or eight years ago. All muted, neutral colors and clean lines, which matches nicely with the white walls but not at all with the cozy hardwood.

Jon  _ really _ needs to paint this place.

But that’s a worry for another day. For now, he grabs his laptop and settles onto his sofa. After a moment, he pulls up a search for “car dealerships Hull.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, I'm so delighted by the response y'all have given this fic so far! It's wonderful to know that my self-indulgent little flight of fancy is enjoyable to people besides myself.
> 
> I anticipate the next chapter being ready for release on or around June 14th. And yes, we'll finally get to see Martin next chapter!


	3. Concerning An Apple Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin bakes a pie, awkward times are had by all, and Jon acquires transportation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, sorry that this is... *checks watch* TWO weeks late! Sure didn't take long to derail my planned update schedule, huh? In my defense, I've had a bit of a chaotic June, but July should be quieter and I'm hoping to get back to more consistent updates. That said, because I had already left it so long, this chapter is unbeta'd because I wanted to get it out to you sooner rather than later. I hope you'll forgive any errors in the text!
> 
>  **Chapter content warnings:** A few very mild references to body image issues/internalized fatphobia, and a few less-mild references to financial stress, because if I can't project onto Martin I'll die. Also bucketloads of secondhand embarrassment, but that's a feature, not a bug.

Martin has a new neighbor.

That in and of itself isn’t that surprising. Two of the houses on Strawberry Terrace are rental properties— well, technically three, but in Martin’s case, he’s renting from family so he doesn’t think that counts in the strictest sense. 

The point is, new neighbors come and go. Sometimes students who are attending one of the universities in Hull and trying to save money by living rural and commuting. Sometimes young adults from the surrounding villages who are just tired of living with their parents. Most recently a quiet woman with an interest in beekeeping and herbs and crystals. Martin knows most people probably don’t like living near rental properties. He’s heard people complain about property values and careless tenants and things like that. Personally, though, he likes it. A regular rotation of new faces in their little neighborhood keeps things fresh.

This, however, is different. The middle house has been sold, and the person who bought it is  _ actually moving in _ instead of converting it to a rental property!

It is not an exaggeration to say that Martin is a little excited about this. Number 103 has been standing unoccupied for as long as Martin has lived here, the previous owners having moved out and put the house on the market six months before he moved in next door.

Martin doesn’t know much about the new neighbor. A rumor went around that Tim Stoker and Annabelle Cane met him in the Bluebell the same day he moved in, but Martin hasn’t seen Tim, and Annabelle frankly scares him a little. All Martin knows about Mr. J. Sims, Esq. is what he’s seen through his kitchen window. 

What he’s observed about his new neighbor is this:

  1. Mr. Sims appears to be older. Martin hasn’t gotten a clear look at him, but his dark hair is streaked with grey and he’s seen him walking with a cane, so he’s guessing he’s somewhere in his sixties and;
  2. Despite this, he appears to walk everywhere, because;
  3. Although a woman dropped him off the night he arrived, he seems to be the sole occupant of his home, and doesn’t appear to own a car.
  4. Also, he’s hung a wind chime outside his front door. It’s not one of those big obnoxious affairs that bothers everyone within hearing range every time there’s a storm at night, just a small, delicate thing, with a little rainbow charm as the clapper, and Martin thinks it’s absolutely darling.



It’s not much to go on as far as determining his character, but it’s enough for Martin to hope for a friendly relationship with him. The other people currently living on Strawberry Terrace are nice enough, but they tend to keep to themselves. It would be nice to have at least one neighbor he’s actually familiar with.

After all, his whole goal in moving back to East Riding after being away for so long had been to try and reconnect with people, right?

Despite how eager Martin is, though, he has the sense not to rush over and immediately introduce himself the same day the newcomer moves in. He’s been through enough moves— voluntary and otherwise— to know how stressful the process of boxing up your life and hauling it god only knows how far, and then unpacking it all again on the other end tends to be. The last thing anyone wants right after moving in is some nosy neighbor coming to bother them, so he holds off for a full week after the day the delivery truck came. 

Truth be told, he’s rather proud of his restraint. It even gives him plenty of time to think about the best excuse to pop over and introduce himself.

He settles on baking a pie. Cookies are probably more traditional, but Martin likes to think he’s a bit more creative than that. Seeing as he still has a few bags of apples stored from the tree in the back garden, a nice apple pie seems like exactly the thing. It’s warm and homey and comforting, and most people like apple pie. And, as a bonus, Mr. Sims will have to return the pie tin at some point, which will mean Martin will have another chance to further the acquaintance in the near future!

It’s a little bit ingenious if he does say so himself.

Saturday is his day off, so in the morning he wakes up bright and early and gets his ingredients together. The process of peeling and slicing the apples is soothing, something he doesn’t have to think too hard about but can put a lot of care into, and when he rolls out the dough he’s absolutely certain he’s got the  _ perfect _ texture for once. He even dares to get a bit fancy and cuts some of the leftover dough into the shape of a butterfly, placing it in the middle of the top crust in what he feels will be a charming personal touch. He’d have preferred an apple or leaf shape, but the butterfly is the only cookie-cutter he has aside from a novelty Batman logo, and he’s not really confident in his ability to freehand anything recognizable, so the butterfly will have to do.

Once the thing is assembled, cinnamon and nutmeg and brown sugar scenting the air even before it goes into the oven, Martin brushes a bit of milk across the crust and sprinkles a pinch of sugar on to ensure it will cook up crisp and golden, and pops it in the oven. 

Martin goes about his day with a cheerful anticipation hanging over him. He does the washing-up, then takes the pie out of the oven once it’s baked, noting the color of the crust with satisfaction, and sets it on a trivet to cool. To his delight, he’s timed it just right so that the pie should be set and ready to eat before tea-time. 

He putters around the house, trying to catch up on chores he’s been letting pile up during the week. It’s been a busier week than usual, so he finds he has a lot to occupy him; he’s in the midst of scrubbing the shower, up to his elbows in baking soda and vinegar, when he hears his mobile ring from the other room.

He scrambles for the phone, wiping his hands dry on a spare cleaning rag as he goes, and fumbles to turn on the screen. His stomach sinks in disappointment when he sees the number and realizes it’s not the one he was hoping for.

Still, he answers the call. 

“Hello?”

_ “Martin, hi, is this a bad time?” _

He smiles despite himself, recognizing the voice immediately. “Oh, hi Hannah. Um, no, now— now’s fine.”

_ “I’m so sorry to bother you, I know you’re not usually free Saturdays, but I was hoping maybe you’d be able to help me out anyway?” _

Martin’s stomach sinks as he senses an early derailment of his plans for the day. “I might have some time free,” he hedges. “What’s going on?”

_ “I’m not totally sure,”  _ she admits, _ “But the bathroom is all kinds of flooded? Right now? And Artie’s out of town on business for a whole week yet so that he can have his schedule free when the baby’s due next month and I honestly have no idea what I’m going to do.” _

Martin thinks about his bank account balance, then immediately feels bad about it. Hannah sounds close to tears. He ought to help a neighbor out because it’s the right thing to do, not just because he really needs the money. But the thing is… he does  _ really  _ need the money. An unexpected job like this, late in the month, is exactly the windfall he needs to get caught up. He tries not to take jobs on Shabbat, but sometimes when money is tight… well...

He makes a decision. “Do you know where the main water shutoff valve for the house is?” 

Hannah makes an affirmative sound.

“Can you get to it and shut the water off?”

_ “I think so. It’s under the stairs so it might be a bit of a squeeze with this belly on me, but I’ll try.” _

“Okay, good. I can probably be there in—” He checks the time. “—an hour? If you can get the water turned off and just sit tight, I’ll see what I can do.”

_ “Oh Martin, honey,  _ thank you,  _ you’re a lifesaver!” _

Despite himself, he feels a little spark of warmth in his chest at her gratitude. “Don’t worry about it,” he assures her. “I’m… happy to help.”

They exchange a few more quick pleasantries and end the call. 

Martin stares down at his phone, frowning.

It looks like his plan to take the pie over to Mr. Sims at tea-time will have to be renegotiated. Still, it should be cool enough to eat by now, even if the timing isn’t quite what he’d planned. If he takes it over now, he’ll still have plenty of time for a chat with his new neighbor before he has to head down into town.

He makes the executive decision that rinsing down the shower can wait— in fact, the vinegar will probably do a better job of lifting the limescale that’s built up on the tap if he leaves it to sit for a few hours— and hurries to change into something more presentable. He shucks off the grubby t-shirt he’s been wearing for chores, but doesn’t throw it in the hamper just yet. It isn’t the first impression he wants to make, but he’s sure he’ll want to change back into it before going to see to Hannah’s plumbing issue.

Martin pulls a clean jumper out of his wardrobe, a cozy fair isle in shades of green and white that Tim once said brought out his eyes— jokingly, Martin’s sure, but he still sometimes thinks about it anyway. He pulls it on over his head and goes to inspect himself in the bathroom mirror.

The first order of business is to sort out his hair, as wriggling into the sweater has put his curls into all kinds of disarray. As he picks apart individual twists of soft black hair and puts it all back into some semblance of order, he examines the rest of him.

He’s about as satisfied as he ever is with what he sees in his reflection, which is to say… not particularly. Still, he looks tidy and presentable, which is what he was going for in the first place. The sort of person who can be a friendly and trustworthy neighbor. That’s the first impression he’s going for here, and he thinks he’s achieved it.

He’s going to pack up his lovely homemade pie and he is going to march over to next door and he is going to introduce himself to Mr. Sims and he is going to make a good impression and it is going to be  _ just. fine. _

He can do this.

“Good afternoon,” he rehearses under his breath as he heads for the kitchen to retrieve the aforementioned baked goods. “My name is Martin Blackwood, I’m your neighbor in Number 104. I baked you a pie to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

And again as he slips his shoes on: “Good afternoon. My name is Martin Blackwood, I’m your neighbor in Number 104. I baked you a pie to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Again as he walks down the front steps, not bothering to lock the door behind him for such a short trip: “Good afternoon. My name is Martin Blackwood, I’m your neighbor in Number 104. I baked you a pie to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

He repeats it in his head again and again as he makes the short walk from his own front garden over to Number 103. 

_ Good afternoon. My name is Martin Blackwood, I’m your neighbor in Number 104. I baked you a pie to welcome you to the neighborhood.  _

He knocks on the front door.

_ Good afternoon. My name is Martin Blackwood, I’m your neighbor in Number 104. I baked you a pie to welcome you to the neighborhood.  _

The door swings open, he opens his mouth, and—

“You’re not an old man,” Martin blurts out.

In point of fact, the person who has opened the door of Number 103 Strawberry Terrace is probably no older than Martin. His black hair is certainly prematurely greying in places, but now that Martin sees him up close, he can see that his face is still decidedly youthful. He’s… well, he’s rather nice-looking, actually. He appears to be of South Asian descent, with warm brown skin and an elegant patrician nose that lends a sturdiness to features that might otherwise be unremarkably delicate. He’s staring up at Martin with large, dark eyes that immediately give the impression of focus and intelligence and—

And he’s beginning to frown, so Martin wrenches his thoughts out of the quagmire of poetic admiration and replays the last few seconds in his head.

Immediately, he can feel his face heating up as the realization of what he just said hits him. He certainly did just say those words. With his mouth. To another human being. In real life.

Well, that settles it, he’s going to have to quit his job and move to Inverness to become a shepherd and never interact with another person.

“I— um—” He flounders, battling the urge to shove the pie at Mr. Sims and run, because dammit, he was  _ excited _ about a new neighbor and this isn’t beyond salvaging. Probably. “I— Martin. Um. Is me. Martin Blackwood. I made you— er… pie?”

His neighbor blinks in obvious confusion. “Uh… thank you?”

Martin is absolutely going to melt into a puddle and die. “I, uh, wow. Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry, that was so rude of me. I just, I saw you outside the other day and I could have sworn you were walking with a cane and I just assumed that you were… but I guess I know what they say about what happens when you assume, so again I’m _ really  _ sorry about that… sorry.” 

One dark eyebrow rises in an expression that is either skeptical judgment or dry amusement, and Martin is too frantic with embarrassment to interpret. 

“I do use a cane sometimes,” Mr. Sims responds after a moment. “Not old, just a tricky knee injury.”

Great. Just great. Not only has he completely botched the lovely introduction he was planning to make to his new neighbor, he’s gone and offended him by drawing attention to a disability he probably doesn’t want to talk about. If Martin’s hands weren’t occupied with the pie tin, he’d be wringing them.

“I’m so sor—”

“Stop apologizing,” he cuts him off. His expression goes a little strained, then, and he closes his eyes before taking a deep breath and letting it out in a huffy sigh. “I think it’s best if we start over, yes?”

It’s not a reset on Martin’s stress levels, but it’s an olive branch. “Yes, that’s probably best,” he agrees. He takes a slow breath of his own to steady himself, and tries to find a smile somewhere inside of himself. He clears his throat, and tries again: “Okay. So. I’m Martin Blackwood, I’m next door in Number 104. I baked you a pie to, er, welcome you to the neighborhood.” He gestures with the pie tin.

“Martin Blackwood,” he repeats, nodding. “I’m Jonathan Blackwood, nice to meet you.”

Martin blinks at that, and is about to say something, when he realizes that his neighbor—  _ Jonathan _ — appears to be going through the same process of replaying his last sentence in his head that Martin went through a minute ago. A look of horror crosses his features the instant he finishes speaking. “Sims!” he blurts out, “I meant Jonath— Jon Sims. Is my name. God, sorry, slip of the tongue there. I, uh, haven’t been… sleeping… well…”

He peters off, looking as miserably embarrassed as Martin felt earlier.

Unsure how to diffuse the tension, Martin lets out a giggle that’s bordering on hysterical. “Don’t worry about it, happens to all of us,” he says.

Jonathan closes his eyes again, looking deeply pained. “God this conversation is just a disaster,” he mutters. He sighs, and looks back up at Martin with a grim smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Apparently today is not the best time for introductions.”

“Apparently not.”

Martin isn’t quite sure where to go from here. Admittedly, Jonathan’s slip-up has managed to make him feel a bit better about his own blundering start to this interaction, but the conversation has gone fully off the rails and he doesn’t think there’s much chance of salvaging it. At a loss, he lifts the pie plate in his neighbor’s direction.

“Anyway,” he says, a little too loudly, “pie!”

Jonathan takes the dish, and to Martin’s immense relief, a small smile crosses his face. “What kind is it?”

“Apple. Figured it was best to go with an old standby.”

“Good choice,” he replies. Then he glances at his watch— an actual  _ wristwatch _ , no wonder Martin had mistaken him for an old man at seeing him from a distance— and his tentative smile slips from his face. “Well, thank you for stopping by, Martin, but I actually have an appointment in a few minutes, so—”

“Oh! Right, sure, I’ll get out of your hair.” Martin can feel himself pinking up again at the unsubtle dismissal. “Feel free to return the tin any time, I’m right next door. But you knew that. Obviously. Um… bye?”

His departure from Jonathan’s doorstep is less of a tactical retreat and more of a humiliating exodus. He stops just short of running back to his own house, and as he changes back into his grubby t-shirt, he takes stock of the interaction.

All right, so it… it certainly could have gone  _ worse _ , he supposes. Admittedly, Martin doesn’t think he’s had an interaction that profoundly socially awkward since he was a teenager. He’s good with people, usually. Not a social butterfly like the Stoker brothers, certainly, but he likes to think he’s an adequate conversationalist. But the upending of his own foolish assumptions had caught him off-guard and—

He buries his face in his hands, fingers shoved beneath the frames of his glasses to press into his eyes in a vain attempt to smooth away tension as he lets out a frustrated groan. 

His one consolation is that Jonathan— Jon? He sort of seems like a Jon— didn’t seem upset by Martin’s fumbling. If anything, he wasn’t actually any better, and seemed nearly as flustered throughout the whole interaction.

Maybe if he’s lucky they’ll be able to move past this and become friendly. The boat has probably sailed on being friends, but friendly would do at this point. Maybe in a year or two they’ll be able to laugh about this if they happen to encounter each other at the Bluebell or something. 

If he’s lucky.

Ugh.

Nothing to be done now, he supposes. He’ll just have to make a better second impression. For now, though, he’s got work to do.

* * *

Jon leans back against the painted wood of his front door and lets out a long, aggravated sigh.

That… could have gone better.

Oh, who is he kidding? The whole interaction was a disaster from start to finish. Bad enough that his new neighbor had to go and start things off with a bit of a faux pas; Jon is positive he hasn’t had a Freudian slip that embarrassing in his entire life. 

Jon has never really had relationships with his neighbors. His grandmother spoke politely to the couples who lived on either side of them, but was not close with anyone in their immediate neighborhood. At Oxford, he preferred to make friends with people he encountered in his classes and at social events, though he thinks he spoke politely enough to the people who lived in flats next to his if he happened to encounter them. Once he was finished with his education and began working, he didn’t really socialize much. He doesn’t think he could name a single other tenant of the building he lived in for the last eight years. On the face of it, it seems silly to choose to socialize with people brought into his circle by something as arbitrary as proximity, rather than common ideals or shared interests.

And yet...

Jon has vague memories from childhood of people from the community coming over with food for weeks after his father passed away, sitting with his mother in the front parlor and giving their condolences in low tones. He was still a toddler then, but he remembers how tired her eyes had been after ever visit, and how her hands trembled as she accepted every dish passed to her. He also remembers how the weight on her shoulders always seemed just a little lighter after these visits. He remembers how the gifts of their neighbors, an eclectic mix of cuisines including everything from lamb biryani to a well-intentioned but entirely inedible toad in the hole, had kept them fed through that first month after the funeral, when it seemed like his mother was too exhausted with grief to face the prospect of cooking anything. 

He looks down at the apple pie he’s still holding, cool enough to handle but still just slightly warm to the touch, and a reluctant smile crosses his face.

Despite as much of a cock-up as that whole conversation was, it doesn’t change the fact that Jon now has a beautiful neighbor who took time out of his day to bake him a pie. There’s even a little butterfly cutout baked onto the crust. That’s almost painfully adorable.

Admittedly, Jon reflects, Martin Blackwood does seem to have a bit of a habit of nervous babbling, which is something Jon’s never had much patience for… but then again, it wasn’t like he was doing much better, was it? He doesn’t think he’s tripped over his own words that badly since his first go at mock trial.

He’s not sure how long he’s spent standing there, stewing in his own embarrassment, before a knock at the door jerks him out of his thoughts. He yanks the door open to find a familiar blonde standing there with her hands shoved in the pockets of her denim jacket.

“Oh, Daisy,” Jon says blankly. “You’re here already.” Somehow he’s surprised, despite having used her impending arrival as an excuse to cut short his interaction with Martin.

“Yeah. Bit late, too.” She nods at the pie he’s  _ still holding  _ and asks, “Is that for me?”

Jon looks down at the pie, then back up at her, and is mortified to feel his face heating up. “Uh, no. Or, well, I’m happy to share a slice if you’d like. My neighbor just came around to… welcome me to the neighborhood, I think?”

Daisy’s eyebrows rise skeptically. “What, just like that? Just walked over and handed you a pie?”

“So it would seem.”

“ _ Jesus _ , people who live in small towns are weird,” she complains, stepping over the threshold and wandering into his house without so much as a by-your-leave.

Jon gives her a dubious look. “I mean, have you got much room to talk? Hull isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis.”

“It’s a sight bigger than— the hell is this place called again?  _ ‘Brambleforde-on-Sea?’ _ ” Her tone just barely avoids being openly mocking. “That’s almost appallingly quaint. And anyway, I grew up in Cardiff, so that qualifies me as a bona fide city dweller.”

Jon, who has never liked Cardiff overmuch, almost tries to debate the point with her. Considering he himself grew up in Bournemouth, however, he decides he doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on and decides it’s wiser to keep his mouth shut. 

“Be that as it may,” he says, “I’ll grant you that it’s been a bit of a… culture shock? I suppose?”

Daisy grins. “Yeah, I just bet.” She eyes the pie Jon’s still holding. “You gonna put that down or what?”

He frowns down at the pastry in his hands, having nearly forgotten he was still hanging onto it. It’s been so long since he’s had someone come to his place of residence that he doesn’t quite remember the proper etiquette. “Are you sure you don’t want a slice before we go?” he ventures.

She shakes her head, twirling her keyring around one long finger. “Nah, no time for it. This time on a Saturday afternoon, we’ll barely make it to Hull before the dealerships start to close as it is.”

Jon nods, and deposits the pie tin on the dining room table before covering it up with a dishtowel. He hopes that’s adequate to keep it from going stale while he’s out. Do pies go stale? He’s not entirely sure. But it’ll have to do, because Daisy is right, it’s already nearly three in the afternoon, and will be closer to four by the time they reach Hull.

He follows Daisy out to the car, pausing only long enough to grab a heavy jacket on his way out the door, aware that he’ll need it for the return trip. It’s only once he’s already settling down in the passenger seat that he realizes he left his cane in the house. He debates going back for it, but decides it’s not worth it. He’s been taking it easy this week, not pushing himself too hard as he gets his belongings arranged in his new space; the knee hasn’t been giving him trouble at all the last few days so he’s probably fine without it.

“So remind me again which dealership we’re going to?” Daisy asks as she backs the car out into the lane. “I know Stoneacre is the big one, but there are a lot in the area.”

“Er…”

“Well come on, spit it out.”

“Actually, it’s the, er… motorcycle dealership north of the city?” 

Daisy actually steps on the brakes halfway down Strawberry Terrace, just to stop and stare fully at him. “Fuck off,” she says, wide-eyed. “I absolutely refuse to believe that you’re buying a motorcycle.”

Jon can feel his cheeks heating up, and he’s not entirely sure he likes her flabbergasted tone. “I could buy a motorcycle!” he protests.

“And are you?”

“Well… not  _ exactly _ …”

* * *

By the time Martin gets to Hannah’s house, he’s gotten over his embarrassment.

Or, well, he’s no longer blushing quite the same shade of scarlet he was when he fled Jonathan Sims’ front step, which is about as good as he figures he’s going to get for awhile.

Hannah answers the door almost before he’s finished knocking. She looks frazzled, barefoot, with sweat glistening against her dark skin and visible water stains creeping up from the hems of her joggers. She’s somehow even more visibly pregnant than the last time he saw her, and she looks wildly relieved to see him.

“Oh thank god you’re here,” she groans. “I’ve put towels down and I got the water off like you said, but it’s such a mess!”

He smiles reassuringly. “Not to worry, I’m sure we can get it put right.”

She shows him to the bathroom, and— oof, yes, he sees what she means. Even with the main water shut off, there’s still a slow drip leaking from the rim of the toilet tank where it’s spilling over in places.

“All right,” he says, setting his toolbox down on the counter. “I’ll get this drained and have a look.”

“ _ Thank you _ ,” she says. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He flashes her another smile. “No, I’ve got it. You just… go sit down, yeah? Can’t be good for you, being on your feet too much this close to your due date?”

She nods. “You’re a life saver, Martin.”

He opens the lid of the toilet tank and pulls the chain, letting the accumulated overflow pour down the drain, then rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

It doesn’t take him long to find the source of the problem. The fill valve is cheap and busted, and the overflow tube is several centimeters too long to do any good. It’s something he’s seen in half a dozen houses in Brambleforde over the last couple years; the more it crops up, the more he wants to send a strongly-worded letter to whatever contractor handled the plumbing work in what seems like every bathroom model done in the mid-nineties. Regardless, it’s not a difficult fix, and he’s able to get the problem patched in a relatively short period of time. 

Once the toilet is sorted, he sets about mopping up the rest of the overflow. Hannah doesn’t need to be down on her hands and knees in her condition, and it’s no trouble for him to take care of drying up the linoleum for her since he’s already here.

Half an hour after being shown into the bathroom, he’s got things back in some semblance of order. He pops the damp towels over the rod for the shower curtain, figuring that Hannah probably won’t want mildew in the nice lined hamper that sits in the corner, and begins packing away his tools.

“You’ve got a two-part problem in there,” he informs her when he finds her sitting at the kitchen table. “The real problem is that your fill valve is broken so the toilet tank will just keep filling continuously. I don’t have the right size replacement right now, so I’ll have to come back on Monday or Tuesday, if that’s all right with you?”

Hannah frowns. “Is it just going to keep overflowing until then?”

“No, I was able to cut your overflow tube down to the right height, so even though it’s going to keep running, the excess will just drain instead of spilling out of the tank. That should keep you dry until I can replace the valve.”

Immediately, the concern on her face clears. “Oh thank goodness. Seriously, Martin, you’re a gift. I really don’t know what this town would do without you.”

“Call in professionals from Hornsea, probably,” he jokes. That is, in fact, what the citizens of Brambleforde-on-Sea tend to do whenever a job comes up that’s beyond his skills as a general handyman. Lately he’s been trying to memorize an electricians’ manual to try and expand the range of what he can do on short notice, because he lives in constant fear that some plumber and/or carpenter will set up shop in one of the empty buildings on Main Street and then he’ll be out half the business from his side job.

Hannah smiles. “We wouldn’t do that to you,” she assures him.

“I appreciate it. Oh, while I’m here, do you want me to go get the water turned back on?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she says. “I didn’t half kill myself trying to get back there with this belly on me.”

He glances down at her pregnant stomach. She really does look a lot more than eight months pregnant. “I’d imagine,” he agrees. “You said you’re due next month?”

She nods. “That’s the plan! I’m due on the 27th, but to be honest, I’m hoping for a Christmas baby.”

“Fingers crossed,” he replies lamely, and lets her show him where the space under the stairs is. 

She had not been exaggerating when she described how small the space is. Martin’s not excessively tall, an inch or two shy of six feet, but he’s softer around the middle than he’d prefer and it makes squeezing himself far enough back to get his hands on the water shutoff difficult. He finds himself deeply grateful that he’s never been particularly claustrophobic.

By the time he’s wormed his way back out of the confined little space, dusty and covered in cobwebs, Hannah has the entire contents of her purse dumped out on the kitchen table and is rooting through a desk drawer frantically. 

“Where are you,” she mutters under her breath, slamming the drawer shut and opening the one beneath it to riffle through instead. Her phone chimes, and when she looks at the text, she lets out a low groan, running a hand down the side of her face and grimacing.

“Oh my god, Martin, I am  _ so _ sorry about this but apparently Arthur took the chequebook with him? I can’t believe it, it’s not like he can’t charge everything to the company card while he’s on business travel… anyway, I won’t be able to pay you until either he comes home or I can get to the bank branch to take out some cash. I’m really sorry, is that okay?”

Martin thinks, again, about his bank balance. He thinks about the monthly bill for his mum’s care that’s due on Tuesday, and rent coming due on the first almost immediately after, and the fact that he’s already a month behind on his phone bill. But it’s not as if there’s any recourse to be found here. There isn’t actually a bank branch or even an ATM for any of the major banks in Brambleforde, and it would just be plain rude to insist that Hannah drive out of town this late in the afternoon just to get cash to pay him.

He forces a smile. “It’s no problem,” he says. “Since I’ll be back as soon as I’ve got the valve replacement for you, I’ll just bring a ten-day invoice with me then.”

Hannah looks deeply relieved, and Martin makes plans to call his aunt to ask if she can give him an extension on his rent payment. Again.

“One of these days I’ll get one of those card readers you can plug into your phone,” he says, half joking and half to say anything at all to avoid feeling the sinking feeling in his gut.

_ It’s going to be okay _ , he tells himself. He’ll figure it out. He always does. 

* * *

Jon has never actually purchased a vehicle before. His grandmother had sold his grandfather’s car after his passing, as she professed a general disinterest in traveling anywhere she couldn’t reach perfectly well via city bus. By the time Jon was old enough to obtain his license, he was already at university and there wasn’t any point to owning a car, and after that he was in London, where his grandmother’s logic about public transit seemed perfectly sound.

The process, he discovers, involves signing what seems like a really unnecessarily large number of documents. The friendly woman who assists him with his purchase informs him that if he had been financing rather than paying in full, it would have been even more. His hand aches a bit just thinking about the prospect of having to print his initials even one more time tonight.

But eventually he’s done, and he’s able to step out into the chilly November evening with a helmet in one hand and a set of keys in the other… and there it is. Brand new and all his, with bi-colored white and orange with charmingly vintage-looking whitewalled tires—

“I genuinely  _ cannot  _ believe you bought a moped.” 

Daisy’s sedan is idling in the parking lot, just a few spaces down from where his new acquisition is parked, and she’s leaned up against the hood, arms crossed over her chest and a deeply amused grin on her face.

“Are you still here?” Jon asks waspishly. He doesn’t even have to read between the lines to work out that he’s being mocked.

She shrugs, straightening up to her full height. “I mean, I went and grabbed a coffee while I was waiting, but I didn’t want to just bounce in case your, uh,  _ purchase _ —” She gives the scooter a dubious look. “—ended up falling through.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” It comes out a little stiff, and more than a bit sarcastic.

She gives a little lopsided smile that shows off a few teeth on one side of her mouth. “Sure. But seriously though, can that thing even get up to highway speeds?”

Jon gives a terse nod. “It’s got a 150CC engine. Not ideal for long trips, but if I want to go anywhere that’s an actual significant distance away, I can take the bus or the train. I mostly need it for getting around town.”

Daisy runs a hand over one of the handlebars. “And you actually know how to ride this?” she asks.

Her tone is performatively casual, and it hits him then that she stuck around out of genuine concern for him. Jon’s prickly discomfort begins to ease as he realizes he’s not being _ laughed at _ , he’s being  _ teased. _ He wonders if the distinction might be clearer to him if he’d grown up with siblings.

Regardless, it warms something in him. “My college girlfriend used to have a scooter for getting around the city,” he explains. “I drove that a few times. I’m far from an expert but I’ve got enough of a sense of what I’m doing to not hurt myself.”

Daisy nods sharply. “Sounds good. Hey, you wanna grab something to eat? If you’re gonna ride that thing all the way back, you might as well do it on a full stomach.”

Jon only has to spend a few seconds contemplating what a 40-minute drive at night in late November is apt to be like before he agrees with her assessment. He meant what he said— he isn’t intending the scooter to be for inter-city travel very often. It’s just an option to make it possible for him to get around town without wrecking his knee. But at least this time, he is actually going to have to get the thing back home, and he’d rather do that with a belly full of hot food.

“I could eat,” he agrees.

“Fantastic. Greek or Indian?” she asks. “There’s a burger place nearby too, but I’m guessing you’d rather have something you can’t get in Brambleforde.”

Jon nods enthusiastically. “Greek would be fantastic, actually. The one thing to lament in moving somewhere so small is that the dining options are… rather limited.”

She snorts. “That’s a polite way of putting it. There’s shit-all to eat in these little towns. C’mon, the best Greek place in town is only about a half a mile from here. You’ll be good to follow behind me?”

Jon tails her to a little hole in the wall Greek restaurant. It doesn’t look like much, but true to her word, the dolmades are some of the best he’s ever had. Conversation over dinner flows more smoothly than in his previous interactions with Daisy, and he gets the sense that he’s starting to get her figured out.

“Thanks again for driving me down,” he says about halfway through their meal. “I promise this is the last time you’ll need to play chauffeur for me.”

She pauses her inhalation of her meal. “Why do I have this feeling that’s going to be a case of ‘famous last words?’” she muses cheekily.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“Eh, from what Basira has said about you, I really get the impression you’re kind of a hot mess of a person.” 

Jon makes an affronted noise, and she makes a placating gesture with her kebab. “Hey, no judgment here. I’m also a hot mess of a person.” She pauses for a beat and then says, with a twinkle in her eyes that even Jon can’t misinterpret, “Basira has terrible taste in friends.”

He can’t help but laugh at that. “I can’t imagine you’re as troublesome a friend as I’ve proved to be.”

The smile that crosses Daisy’s face at that isn’t as bold as the ones he’s seen from her so far. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she says. “I was a mess when we met. Basira pulled my ass out of the fire… god,  _ so _ many times before I got my shit together.”

Jon doesn’t have to know their history to understand the fondness that creeps into Daisy’s voice as she speaks. “She’s really something special, isn’t she?” 

“You can say that again,” Daisy agrees emphatically. 

Despite himself, Jon is aware that his fondness for their mutual friend is probably showing on his face. “Honestly, even leaving aside how much she helped with the whole… er, legal mess? She’s been a blessing.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm. I’m basically areligious now, but I was raised Muslim. I was sort of cut off from that part of my upbringing after my mother passed away, so befriending Basira…” He shrugs. “It was nice to spend time with someone who shares at least some of that… cultural context, I guess? Not to say that there aren’t significant differences between Arab and Pakistani culture overall, but...”

Daisy nods. “There’s more in common there than you’d likely find with somebody whose whole family has been C of E since the sixteenth century, yeah?”

“Exactly.”

“Makes sense. Well, I’m glad you two became friends, for her sake if nothing else,” Daisy says. “I swear since I moved out of London, she’s spent most of her time working. The last year or so since you guys got close, I’ve gotten the impression that she’s been less of a workaholic.”

Privately, Jon suspects Basira disconnecting from her work somewhat may have more to do with the disenchantment she alluded to during their drive to the train station than any influence he may have had. He’s certainly not any kind of role model when it comes to prioritizing work over everything else. Still, if Daisy thinking he was good for Basira makes it easier to get along with her… well, there are worse things. He thinks he and Daisy could be friends. She’s got an ease and a confidence to her that’s reassuring. 

“She deserves a break,” Jon says, which he figures is neutral enough. 

Daisy nods. “I’ve been trying to convince her to use some of those vacation days she’s got banked to come for a visit, but no dice yet.”

“Well, now that there are two of us living up north, maybe she’ll have more incentive to consider it, hm?”

That teasing smile is back on her face. “Looks like you  _ are _ good for something, then,” she says brightly. “How about that.”

There’s no real heat in the glare Jon gives her in response, and Daisy throws back her head and laughs.

*

The rest of the meal passes easily enough, with Daisy sharing some stories of the trials and tribulations she and her business partner— who is apparently quite a character— went through when trying to get their gym set up a few years back. In return, Jon shares an amusing anecdote from his university days, and tries not to think about the fact that he’s pretty sure that was actually the last period of his life that included anything that could be referred to as “an amusing anecdote.” It’s all in all a pleasant evening, and he thinks maybe he’s starting to get a proper handle on Daisy’s personality.

They part ways with a smile, and a heavy-handed clap on his shoulder from Daisy that nearly sends him stumbling into a wall, and then Jon is alone with his new moped. He takes a moment to admire it before securing his helmet in place and taking off into the night.

The scooter has a bigger engine than the one Georgie used to drive around Oxford, which does a lot to change the rate of acceleration, as he discovered via the minor setback during his test drive. But he’ll get used to it, and he appreciates that the boost in speed gets him back home nearly as quickly as he would have in a passenger vehicle.

Even at top speed, though, it’s still a solid 40 minute trip back to Brambleforde, and he’s freezing by the time he reaches the house. His jacket only does so much to keep him warm, and he’s regretting the choice not to bring gloves. At least the helmet is well-insulated, and keeps the wind out of his eyes.

He parks the moped in the garden shed and lets himself into the house, shivering violently. Jon all but flings himself into a hot shower, and stands under the steaming water for longer than is probably good for him. Even so, he still feels a chill in his bones as he’s pulling his joggers and a clean sleep shirt on, and resolves on a cup of tea before he settles in for the night.

When he enters the kitchen, the first thing he sees is the covered pie tin sitting on the table. As he fills the kettle, he resolves to cut himself a slice. He’s pretty sure sweets before bed is discouraged, but he tends to sleep better on a full stomach. And besides… it’s basically fruit and bread, right? That’s got to count for something.

He heats a piece of the pie in the microwave while his tea is steeping, then carries both to the window seat, where he wraps himself up in a blanket and settles in to enjoy his treat. 

It’s delicious. Jon can cook well enough, but he’s always been a bit too lax about following recipes to the letter to be very successful at baking. Clearly his neighbor has no such troubles, because the filling is fruity and perfectly seasoned, and despite having been reheated, the crust is surprisingly crisp and flaky. It’s clear that there was genuine effort put into the baking.

He wishes, suddenly, that the social interaction portion of their encounter earlier had gone more smoothly. Maybe he would have had the confidence to invite Martin inside for a cuppa and a share of the pie he had clearly put such care into.

Jon resolves then that he’s not going to let his embarrassment over how badly their first meeting went stop him from building a relationship with his neighbor. Something in his gut is telling him that Martin Blackwood is someone he would very much like to get to know… or maybe that’s just the pie.

Somehow Jon doesn’t think so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your feedback on this fic! Comments give me life and bring me joy, and I appreciate every single one of them!
> 
> Next time: Jon returns the pie tin.


End file.
